He sank at once into a chair, as though wearied almost to exhaustion. He stretched his legs so that fatigue might express itself in every line of his figure. He lit a Woodbine. Supper was on the table—some bread and pickles and cheese, knives, and a jug of beer. He grabbed the jug to his mouth and drank noisily from it, and angrily, as though he were at last getting his rights from the world. “Well, old ’un,” he tossed at the old man, perfunctorily, by way of salutation. He strove to put warmth and jocularity in the tone, but his face and lips remained stiff and cold. He smacked his hands together. “Ah, well,” he observed to the room generally. He looked critically at his hands. “Fingernails want cutting,” he remarked inconsequently. Old Joe took no notice of his greeting; did not look at him; seemed to be intent on something known only to himself. “’Ere, Fanny-baby,” called Perce, “want you a minute.” “What you want Fanny for, Percy-boy?” “Go up t’your bedroom, will yeh, and get those scissors.” “Here’s pair scissors here.” “Yes, but ... I want th’other pair. The small ones in your room.” “’Oo’s that in th’ouse?” snapped Old Joe, with pistol-shot explosion. “Someone’s in th’ouse. I can feel it!” “Can’t Percy-boy go’mself?” prattled Fanny. “No—too tired. You go—there’s a goo’ girl. Then I’ll buy you some chocolate biscuits.” He looked covertly to right and left. “Awright. Fanny go. Cho-co-late biscuits!” she sang, to no tune. “Fanny!” Old Joe bit off the words. “You stop ’ere!” Perce slewed round. “Whaffor, old ’un? Why can’t she go?” “’Cos I don’t want ’er to. Fanny—stop. Stop ’ere!” “Whaffor, daddie dear? Why daddie not want Fanny to go?” “Cos I ... I ... want yeh. There’s something ... something going on. I ... don’t understand. I can feel it. All round, like. Perce, me boy, what you looking like that for? Eh? Whassup? You got some game on, Perce. Oo’s that in th’ouse?” Perce affected not to hear. “Go on, Fan, there’s goo’ girl. Up yeh go. Old man’s got the fair fantods to-night.” “_Fanny!_” It was a shrill scream, strained with effort. “Don’t you go. It’s yer old dad tells yeh. For the love of God Almighty, don’t go. There’s something ... I know. I can feel it. I can tell it by that beast’s face. What’s ’e want cutting ’is nails this time o’ night?” Fanny ran to him, crooning. “Daddie musn’t call Percy a beast. Percy good brother to Fanny. Going to buy Fanny chocolate biscuits.” “Yerss,” said Perce, “don’t call me names like that else I’ll make a rough ’ouse, I tell yeh. If yeh wasn’t a blasted cripple I’d clump yeh one fer that. See?” The great Windsor chair in which the old man was imprisoned shook with his efforts to raise his piping treble. “Fanny—Fanny—stop! I tell yeh, stop! For the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, stay ’ere.”